With that rushed, urgent pace, it's easier for her to forget everything else. It becomes harder to stop and think about all the tender things that lie beneath their fingertips, gentle or firm as they may be on one another. Rushing headfirst into that passion, soaring to those heights before she can recognize that it is his caressing winds that carry her is so much simpler than having to face what that means, and the reality of their feelings.
The unending depth of them.
This sort of restraint, this sort of softness feels foreign to her now. So used to sinking her claws into people, so used to living within the chaos of her own storms, her screams and shouts drowning out the broken sound of her heart, that she had forgotten what it was like to be so gentle. To be so scared to touch and to be touched...
Still, she lets him. Only him...
Her lips, swollen and as red as the moon, fall open with a soft moan when she feels that spark dance over her throat.]
As if you have ever made it easy...
[Their eyes meet, and he will see a flicker of something in her own. That conflict still swirling in the greens, the fear that stirs it, and the love that tries so very hard to push through that tempest and rush to him.
One hand slips out from under his shirt to grasp at his again, to stop him from pulling down any further on her blouse. The point of this was to not tumble into their throes, but to teeter close to the edge. To see how far he can push her before she is too afraid to leap off.
So, she leans in to kiss him again. The slow kind—one whose burn will linger long after she brings them apart, only so that she can exhale, her breath trembling to keep up with her ever-quickening pulse.]
Gentler.
[Her fingers squeeze around the hand at her chest.]
no subject
With that rushed, urgent pace, it's easier for her to forget everything else. It becomes harder to stop and think about all the tender things that lie beneath their fingertips, gentle or firm as they may be on one another. Rushing headfirst into that passion, soaring to those heights before she can recognize that it is his caressing winds that carry her is so much simpler than having to face what that means, and the reality of their feelings.
The unending depth of them.
This sort of restraint, this sort of softness feels foreign to her now. So used to sinking her claws into people, so used to living within the chaos of her own storms, her screams and shouts drowning out the broken sound of her heart, that she had forgotten what it was like to be so gentle. To be so scared to touch and to be touched...
Still, she lets him. Only him...
Her lips, swollen and as red as the moon, fall open with a soft moan when she feels that spark dance over her throat.]
As if you have ever made it easy...
[Their eyes meet, and he will see a flicker of something in her own. That conflict still swirling in the greens, the fear that stirs it, and the love that tries so very hard to push through that tempest and rush to him.
One hand slips out from under his shirt to grasp at his again, to stop him from pulling down any further on her blouse. The point of this was to not tumble into their throes, but to teeter close to the edge. To see how far he can push her before she is too afraid to leap off.
So, she leans in to kiss him again. The slow kind—one whose burn will linger long after she brings them apart, only so that she can exhale, her breath trembling to keep up with her ever-quickening pulse.]
Gentler.
[Her fingers squeeze around the hand at her chest.]